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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Jack/Norrington, Smecker
Feedback: Good lines, typos, etc.
Disclaimer: Characters do not belong to me.
Notes: Boondock Saints/PotC crossover.
Summary: Dr. Paul Smecker—diagnosing and abetting sexual deviancy for over thirty years.
***
Normally Paul liked to rush his afternoon cases and get straight to a nap so he could be the harassing night-owl of Greenly’s pathetic-ass life, but today’s looked interesting. Technically it was a single-man case, but the Navy referral had a bizarre memo attached that detailed in excruciatingly bureaucratic detail how this particular officer was extraordinarily capable and responsible and utterly perfect except for the tiny detail of not being able to function at optimum conditions unless accompanied by an incredibly untrustworthy blah blah blah…
“Christ. Never realized you could make a literary weapon out of describing an affair with the enemy. You could crack hard-cases if you just made them read the first couple lines.” Paul tossed the file on his desk and picked up his coffee. He held it just under his nose and took a deep whiff, sighing in satisfaction as the perfect combination of central-nervous-system stimulants and artificial sweetener hit his nostrils. “Amazing, Greenly. After six months here, you’ve finally figured out how to retrieve a cup of coffee.”
*Shocked as I am that you’re actually complimenting me, we got a problem. There’s a bunch of cannons aimed at the door and the guy behind them’s swearing on his mother’s—sorry, his ship that he’s gonna blow the fucking thing if you don’t get a move on.*
For fuck’s sake, Greenly had done a round on riot squad in Boston, and now he was getting his panties in a twist over a couple cannons? They probably weren’t even six-pounders. “Fine, send them in.”
The officer was resplendent in blue and white and gold, and couldn’t have looked more stiff if he’d been in the grip of rigor mortis. The accompaniment was colorfully ragged and about as drunk as Paul wished he could be. He made a bow full of fluttering fingers and smoldering eyes, and tipped a wink when he caught Paul assessing how the man’s breeches fit snugly over his ass. The officer just looked like someone had stuffed an extra handful of wadding up his asshole.
“Commodore James Norrington and…Captain Jack Sparrow,” Paul said, nodding to each of them in turn. He picked up his notepad and pencil, but discovered that he’d already filled it up, so he had to toss that in a drawer and find a new one. “I’m Dr. Paul Smecker; please refer to me as Doctor or Smecker. I am your psychiatrist, not your friend. Since your employers have already paid, feel free to tell me anything without worrying that I will interrupt with lousy advice, irrelevant whining about my own life or begging for a loan.”
Norrington blinked hard. Sparrow rustled around in his seat, but no matter how he flopped, he always had limbs sticking out. His M. O. was to stare at them for a moment, frown as if he didn’t know how they’d gotten there, and then go for another round of circling in the chair. It was a pretty sneaky way of disguising the fact that he was watching Paul as closely as Paul was watching him.
“Now, do we all know why we’re here?” Paul finally found a fresh notepad and settled back on his couch. He opened it to the first page and drew some daisies. After a moment, he erased the stems and redid them as a chain.
“My superiors feel that my performance is suffering, but can find no reasonable physical explanation. They suggested I see you to rule out the possibility of…‘emotional fatigue.’” What Norrington thought of that idea was clear as gum sticking up the bottom of a shoe in his sneer. He sat perfectly straight, hands tightly folded in his lap. His fingers twitched every time Sparrow changed his position.
Above the daisies Paul drew a growly thing. He gave it bushy eyebrows, then curved its back around so it was sitting down. “Do you feel that your performance is suffering?”
“No,” Norrington said.
“Like a sail drooping in a windless sea,” Sparrow said. He looked innocently at Norrington’s glower.
Paul tilted his notepad so he could stare in carefully calculated innocent confusion at them. Norrington pressed his lips tightly together and raised an eyebrow at Sparrow, who lifted a hand. He held the fingers rigidly upright, then slowly let them fold over.
“I meant his professional performance,” Paul dryly commented.
Blushing put some much-needed color into Norrington’s cheeks. Sparrow didn’t develop any similar color, but he did duck his head a little bit. “Oh. Right, got you now, mate.”
“Smecker. Or Doctor.” All Paul was really doing was giving his monster a cock so he could spurt all over the daisies, but the loud skritch he made with his pencil had the nice effect of making both men jump. He sketched in some clawed fingers around the dick. “But while we’re on the subject, we might as well tackle it.”
Norrington looked horrified. Politely so, but definitely horrified.
“The appointment was made to include you, Captain Sparrow, so obviously the Navy thinks that you’re essential to Commodore Norrington’s well-being. And so—”
“If—if I may interrupt?” Norrington said, raising his hand. His blush had faded, but the embarrassment was still going strong. “While Jack—er, Captain Sparrow and I have a close relationship that extends beyond the professional sphere, we are always careful that it does not influence our official interactions.”
Paul drew a nice, full shower of come raining down on the daisies. It was a shame he couldn’t get colored pencils or pastels, but that would be a little too obvious. “I’m certain you do, Commodore, but the fact remains that men are greatly influenced by their subconscious desires. And there’s nothing more subconscious than sexual relationships.”
Too damned bad, or else half the idiots walking around wouldn’t have been born if their parents had been actually thinking. He gave it a couple moments for them to be updated on Freudian theory and so forth, spying on their expressions from the corner of his eye. Mostly Sparrow didn’t seem surprised, though at one point he started to protectively cover his crotch; Norrington was a bit more shocked but covered it up well.
“I assume you two do have a regular arrangement,” Paul went on.
Sparrow snorted, rolling eyes and hand. “Arrangement I’ll give you. But regular? Doctor, I haven’t gotten in to see the fine Commodore but once in the past month, and then I had to kidnap the stubborn, er, dedicated man.”
“Because I have responsibilities and a fixed position. We’ve already discussed this, and you had no complaints before,” Norrington muttered. “If you do now, I really don’t see why we had to come here to discuss it.”
Lounging in the chair like he was meant Sparrow was flashing some nice bits of bronzed chest. The jerking-off monster took up most of Paul’s first page, so he flipped it over and started doodling what the rest of Sparrow probably looked like beneath all that baggy clothing.
“Well, I certainly would have if I’d been able to get a word to you. I’d no complaints before because at least I was likely to catch you free once a week.” As he worked himself into a minor rage, Sparrow’s hand gestures grew more and more grandiose. He might’ve made a fine director for the florid Romantic pieces, or maybe even late Beethoven, if not for all the blinding rings. “But now I slip in and I see you buggering one of the Turners, or dishonoring your lieutenants, or even messing around with Bootstrap, and he hasn’t been right in the head since his little nine-year swim…”
Norrington drew himself up impossibly straighter. “Sparrow, you’re hardly one to comment on mental stability.”
“Gentlemen, we’re trying to discuss the Commodore’s mental state, so please stick to the subject. Unless Sparrow has rabies, his insanity is not contagious and therefore is irrelevant.” Paul frowned at his picture, drawing and redrawing the weird white thing in Jack’s hair. It never seemed to come out right, and finally he just doodled a hand fisting in the hair over it. “Commodore Norrington, are Sparrow’s allegations as to your excessively bountiful sexual adventures true?”
For a moment, Paul thought Norrington was going to burst a blood vessel. But no such like; the man restrained himself and swallowed till the flaming red of his face had faded. “He always exaggerates. Why, Sparrow himself regularly entertains the Turners, and—yes, Jack, I know about those little jaunts into Tortuga. Bootstrap Bill is a…ah, common acquaintance for both of us. And as for my lieutenants, I am merely fulfilling my duties as their superior officer.”
“It’s always nice to see that the old traditions are being upheld. The Navy just wouldn’t be the Navy without that extra touch of sodomy: rum, fornication and the lash just doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?” Paul mused.
“Funny how your bed seems to be overflowing nowadays, though,” Jack put in. He leaned in to whisper loudly to Paul. “And when I do get a chance to see him, even the fabled harem of the Great Mogul couldn’t raise a salute from him.”
Norrington’s eyes narrowed to sharp flints. “Jack…”
“I’m but telling the God’s own truth, James. You just flop in my hammock and have yourself a good snore. I wouldn’t be spending nearly so much time debauching young Will if you were more up to it.” Sparrow illustrated with elaborate hand movements. He probably was supple enough to pull off the spin fuck position of the Kama Sutra.
Huh. Paul started a quick thumbnail sketch on the margin, trying to see how many positions he could recall off the top of his head. “Commodore Norrington, have you noticed an increase in sexual partners in the past few months?”
It took a moment for Norrington collect himself enough to answer. His face was still rather red, and now his hands were clenched on his knees. “Compared to Jack—”
“Now, now, we’re discussing you. Different people have different capacities for sex. Sparrow may be able to handle a large amount of quick-change partners better than you, but you might be able to better handle longer and more intense sessions with few partners,” Paul clucked. Hmm. Thirty-five without any problem, and thinking a bit eventually dragged out another twenty-eight, but the last position eluded him. “If your sexual schedule is out of sync with your partner schedule, that could very well produce a slight but pervasive deterioration in your general energy and quickness in dealing with any situation.”
He plastered on his sympathy-face and turned towards Norrington, who at first kept a stiff upper lip. Jack likewise twisted around to stare thoughtfully at Norrington.
The first sign was a slight twitching in Norrington’s lips. Then he started to knead his knees, and finally he threw himself back in his chair with the air of the utterly resigned. “All right—yes. I do feel rather overwhelmed. At first they were at manageable levels, but now it seems as if I’m being asked to see to every new sailor and pirate under the sun. My God, I’ve even got Navy lieutenants from the future showing up on my doorstep. Now, I’m not blaming what is rightfully my duty, but…”
“…he’s not exactly the only commanding Naval officer in the Caribbean. There’s the lot at Nassau, and the one from the West Indies…” Sparrow liquidly slumped over and nuzzled Norrington’s shoulder, giving him a comforting pat on the arm. “Suppose I can’t blame them for wanting only the best, but I’ve got to press my claim as having something of a higher priority, savvy?”
“And here we have a solution!” Paul quickly did the Wheelbarrow position in stick figures before he forgot it again. He dropped his notebook and smiled triumphantly at a puzzled Norrington and Sparrow.
Oh, right. Need a prescription, need a…well, that was obvious. He rummaged around in his desk till it came up with two blank schedule books, then tossed them to the other men. “Easy. Sparrow, make yourself an unbreakable weekly appointment in Norrington’s schedule, and bracket it with two-hour mandatory no-sex intervals. You may also want to look into investing in a male chastity belt.”
Norrington produced an outraged noise. Sparrow just looked intrigued. After a moment, Norrington whirled on Sparrow and began a furious exchange of whispering.
Paul coughed. “Excuse me. I also think you may want to try matchmaking.” He stared down their cold looks. “To pair up the others jockeying for Norrington’s attention. Or at least get a secretary. They’re wonderful for accidentally forgetting to enter appointments and delaying impatient little shits in the lobby.”
*Nice to know I’m appreciated,* buzzed Greenly.
“Ignore that,” Paul smilingly told Norrington. He slid his hand beneath the couch till he found the button that’d shock Greenly over the desk. A muffled thump a moment later saw Paul genuinely smiling. “Good day, sirs. Don’t forget to take your cannon with you on your way out, or else I’m afraid we’ll have to triple-charge their removal. And no, we don’t take doubloons—it’s strictly pornbunnies here.”
***